The Pride of Rodia
by TemporaryNameTag
Summary: The story of an unsung Rodian hero and his adventure to save his planet with his human friend and a ragtag bunch of misfits found along the way. Heartwrenching failures and uplifting triumphs of the adventure make it something of a Lord of the Rings meets Star Wars story. The story is set to predate Episode 1 by about 500 years and uses original characters.


1

Behind a massive obsidian desk, Rodia's self-proclaimed Governor knelt before the holoimage of a hooded Ithorian. The Ithorian gurgled in a deep voice, his double mouths humming in the air like an exposed circuit.

"Describe it to me," said the Ithorian.

"It is one meter in length. The head and shaft are of an ancient blend of carbonite and durasteel, found only on the outer-rim world Dathomir. The weapon is capable of deflecting a star fighter's direct blaster bolt," said the kneeling Governor of Rodia. He spoke in Bas ic, but the power it commanded was eerily similar to his master's.

"Very good my apprentice. You have done well."

"Master, I do not understand the importance of such an ancient weapon, nor do I see any reason why the Rodians would seek it out. It is most probable that they are unaware of its existence," said the Governor.

"Aware or not, it makes no difference. Have you seen the hammer for yourself?"

"No master," said the Governor.

"Then how can you be sure of its significance? The weapon is more important than its humble appearance portrays. I fear that you may not ever understand," said the Ithorian, turning his back dramatically.

The Governor felt anger swell within him, yet he said nothing. He had learned long ago when to hold his tongue. The long, sharp scar on the left side of his face was constant reminder.

After an extended pause, the Ithorian turned back to face the Governor.

"How is the weapon being stored?" asked the master.

"It is safe with some of my best men in a sector of Rodia only loosely controlled by a small war clan called the _Renegades_. An informant tells me that an attack is eminent, though the date is not yet known. The informant also claims that the Clan is powerful and quite capable, and that my generals have underestimated the strength of the indigineous people."

"A sentiment you share?" asked the Ithorian, his voice dripping with distaste.

"I don't believe so, my Lord. I have subdued them for nie on twenty years. They will be broken soon enough."

"I have broken stronger worlds in twice the time," said the Master. "Your lineage may have to be passed on." The master paused to let his statement stale the air. "It is of no consequence. They are no match for the hammer.

"But what of this informant? Who is he? Can he be trusted?" asked the master.

"Absolutely, my Lord. He has proven himself as a ruthless mercenary countless times before. He is our insurance policy, should the Rodian attack succeede, whatever the likelihood of that is," scoffed the Governor.

The Ithorians eyes narrowed on the sides of his massive L-shaped hammerhead. "Do not be so arrogant, my padawan. There is a lot of jungle between you and the weapon. I trust you are leaving soon to receive it?"

"Immediately, my Lord. But the journey across Rodia's surface is not to be an expedient one, even by air. It will take one full day to arrive and retrieve the weapon," said the Governor.

"Then I expect you will make all haste. Once the weapon is in your grasp, you are to bring it personally to Coruscant, where I will inspect it myself."

The Governor's throat caught as fear took hold of him. He had not left Rodia in over twenty years, and had not been to Coruscant in as many. Furthermore, he had not seen his master's face in over ten, and their last meeting had not been a pleasant one.

"The weapon is the key to our legacy," rumbled the Ithorian.

"Yes, master. It is of my ultimate concern that our legacy is not lost. I will have it within my grasp in no more than two days, and it will be in Coruscant within the week," said the Governor. The Ithorian nodded and his cloaked image vanished, leaving the Governor alone in his throne room on his bent knee.

The Governor stood, his knee popping and burning with joint pain. He was not the young man he once was. Years of leaping from high buildings and launching himself thirty meters with force assisted jumps and sprinting with the aid of the darkside at well over forty kilometers had left his knees in worse than poor condition.

A quick surge from the darkside took the pain away, helped him to refocus it into anger which he bottled for another day. He stepped up to the window which provided a spectacular view of Rodia's capital city, Rodaran. Far, far below, the Governor could see a miniscule disturbance in the Force as two children fought over a crumb of bread. It caught his eye like a lion to a mouse. The dark side was manifest in one of them. It was worth noting, but nothing more.

In a moment, he had forgotten the event entirely. His master would expect him to have retrieved the hammer within two days. He had better set off immediately.


End file.
